Archive for Last Call

Page Seventeen II: The Smell of Fear

Posted in FILM, literature with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 27, 2021 by dcairns

Callendar’s shop window had been smashed by and angry girl who had thrown a bicycle through it. It was now boarded up and the timber slates bore the commemorative legend in white chalk:

“You agreed to take the beasts.”

The water was boiling and I sterilized the instruments. Infection can follow even the most rigid asepsis and his dusty kitchen for an operating theatre hardly gave the man on the table a sporting chance. For a minute I considered not operating at all and letting fate decide.

I went forward mechanically, swung the spade over my shoulder and smashed the blade of it with all my strength against the protruding chin. I felt and almost heard the fabric of his skull crumple up crisply like an empty eggshell. I do not know how often I struck him after that but I did not stop until I was tired.

It seemed to the Procurator that the cypresses and palms in the garden gave off the smell of roses, that the accursed smell of roses was mingled with the odors of the convoy’s leather gear and sweat.

He rolled his head back and sniffed, but there was no smell of roses in the room. He was getting dizzy and weak, but at least there was no smell of roses.

“Smells like an earthquake,” said Margaret, and dressed. Emily remembered the awful story about the governess and the hair-brush: certainly Margaret did not use one for its ordinary purpose, though she had long hair: so it must be true.

Seven short passages from seven page seventeens selected from various books lying about my person.

Live Now, Pay Later by Jack Trevor Story; The Island of Doctor Moreau by H.G. Wells; Donovan’s Brain by Curt Siodmak; The Third Policeman by Flann O’Brien; The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov; Last Call by Tim Powers; A High Wind in Jamaica by Richard Hughes.